A book is a suicide postponed.Too volatile, am I? too voluble? too much a word-person?
I blame the soup: I’m a primordially
Two pronouns and a vehicle was Icarus with wings.
The apparatus of his selves made an ab-
The sound I make is sympathy’s: sad dogs are tied afar.
But howling I become an ever more un-
I need a hundred more of you to make a likelihood.
The mirror’s not convincing — that at-best in-
As time’s revealing gets revolting, I start looking out.
Look in and what you see is one unholy
The only cure for birth one doesn’t love to contemplate.
Better to be an unsung song, an unoc-
McHugh, you’ll be the death of me — each self and second studied!
Addressing you like this, I’m halfway to the
22 of 30. Happy National Poetry Month!